


Idle Hands

by Wolfsbride



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsbride/pseuds/Wolfsbride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phone sex - M style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idle Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/gifts).



Bond stifles a yawn as he stands outside the Transport Minister’s office. He’s playing bodyguard and it irritates him. M had passed it off as a case of no one else being available but they both knew he was being punished. You didn’t waste a Double-O on what amounted to sentry work. 

He tugs at his cuffs and the bottom of his suit jacket. It’s all he can do not to shift back and forth on his feet. He checks his watch and has to bite back a curse when he realizes he’s got another five hours to go. 

Running a palm over his cropped hair, he sighs. Then he has a thought. It’s probably suicide, but right now he feels like slitting his wrists to escape. 

He lifts a hand to his ear and activates his comm. “Bond checking in, ma’am.”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Bond?” 

It sounds like she’s standing right next to him, it’s so clear. “No, ma’am. Just wanted to touch base.”

“You must be ill.” 

It’s a not so subtle jab at his tendency to indulge in extended periods of radio silence. Feeling rather reckless, Bond continues on. “Are you alone?” He can just imagine her expression.

“Yes, Mr. Bond. It’s just me and the massive quantities of paper work I have yet to complete so do get off the line.”

He really should if he knows what's good for him. It's just that he's never been able to leave well enough alone where M is concerned.

“So, M. What are you wearing?” He knows of course. He’d met with her before having to come on this god awful excuse for an assignment. He just wants to see if she’ll play along.

“Mr. Bond! I’m sure you’re well aware of the fact that I’m a very busy woman. Most of which relates directly to you. Now kindly stop wasting my time and tax payers’ money and get back to work.”

Bond can’t help but laugh at that. “M, you and I both know this isn’t work. Besides. I’m bored. And since you’re responsible for my current state of boredom, I’ve decided you have to entertain me.” Bond is well aware he’s pushing the envelope; he just can’t seem to stop himself.

“Is that so?” 

Her voice has an edge to it and Bond has half a second to wonder what he’s unleashed when her voice is back, crisp and cool in his ear.

“Right. Well, as you know, 007, I’m wearing a grey blouse and black jacket and skirt. And underneath that I’m wearing a plain cotton bra and panties with stockings. It’s not that I don’t like lace or silk, you understand, it’s just that when you get to my age, lace and silk no longer cups in the way one needs in order to be seen in public. Or course, in private…”

M’s voice is bland. It’s the voice she uses to read his reports out loud when she finds them particularly ridiculous. How is it possible his mind is filling with images of her naked but for her utilitarian under clothes? And why is he getting aroused by it?

He flirts. It doesn’t mean anything. His flirting with M has always been more about the fact that she’s there and he’s trying to get a rise out of her than any specific interest on his part. But now. God. He’s actually getting hard and wondering. 

“In fact, Mr. Bond, I rather prefer satin or silk over lace. Both are very cool against the skin and the slipperiness is quite invigorating. There have been many times where I’ve climaxed from having my nipples or pussy rubbed through a satin or silk camisole.”

Bond’s eyes slam shut as if by closing them he could shut off the mental film that is now playing in his mind. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help. It just seems to make the images all the more clear.

It’s insane. He’s not one to get off on a woman’s voice. It usually takes the whole package to get him going. And it’s not even like M is speaking provocatively. But fuck, right now he’s so turned on. There are images floating around his head of M with one hand between her thighs while the other cups her breast and pinches her nipples. His cock twitches as it gets harder and harder.

Forcing his eyes open, Bond realizes that he’s almost panting and concentrates on slowing his breathing. He checks his surroundings, suddenly grateful for the monotony of the mission. In his ear, M continues to speak.

“And let’s not forget the many other uses for silk, Mr. Bond. Padded handcuffs are all well and good, but even those can leave marks. Silk is quite adequate for binding, especially if one is well versed in knots. I don’t recall. Were you ever a boy scout, Mr. Bond?”

The whine takes him completely by surprise but Christ. Now he’s got the picture of M wound up in silk etched in his head. His cock can’t get any harder so now it’s just pushing against the front of his pants, stretching the material. His tailor is going to kill him. 

To his chagrin, in the silence, he can hear the shuffling of paper. He can’t believe she’s actually doing bloody paper work while driving him mad. It’s typical M, though.

Bond clears his throat and manages to moisten his mouth enough to speak. “Well, you sound very busy. I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Oh, don’t sign off on my account, Mr. Bond. Never let it be said that I don’t try to keep my agents’ needs in mind. I wouldn’t want you to expire from boredom. You didn’t answer my question so I’m not sure if you’re aware that it’s possible to allow a person some small semblance of movement without actually allowing them the freedom to escape. It makes for a nice juxtaposition: being able to writhe without being able to flee. Of course one should always make sure one has consent.”

Bond goes very still. That sounds very much like M has experience on both sides of that scenario and for some reason the thought is killing him. Maybe because he can’t help but picture himself there in M’s bed, all tied up for her pleasure. His cock throbs hard and he has to abort the movement of his hand towards his groin. 

He has another look around and he briefly wonders if he can get away with leaving his post so he can sneak off for a quick rub. He decides that would be hideously unprofessional. M would have him drawn and quartered if she found out. 

To be honest, he can’t quite believe how badly he wants to wank. Every word that spills from M’s mouth seems to weave a spell around him that makes him ache to come. He breaks in on her rhapsody on feathers because Christ Almighty, he’s only human. “Okay. Look. Okay. You… You win, alright? Lesson learned. No more prank calls.”

“Why Mr. Bond. It sounds as though you’re in need of a helping hand.”

Bond doesn’t whimper, but picturing M’s hand on his prick makes it a close call. “Please. Just stop.” His voice is low and the teasing tone he’d started with is completely gone. 

“Oh, Mr. Bond, I don’t think so. You started it after all. I’m just finishing it. You’d like that wouldn’t you? For me to finish you off?”

“Yes, damn it! You know I would.” Bond hisses from between his gritted teeth. 

M laughs. “Well, maybe later.” She pauses and then says sharply. “Perhaps _much_ later. 

There is the sound of M moving something on her desk. “I know you want to touch yourself, my dear, but you mustn’t. And James? I’ll know if you do.”

He knows she would too. He’s never been able to hide much from her. He breathes shallowly and checks his watch once more. Four hours left. Enough time for him to calm the fuck down.

Only, M picks up the thread of their conversation. “Now where was I? Oh yes. Feathers. Soft feathers feel divine but there’s much to be said for stiff feathers in just the right places.” 

Bond really does whimper this time. 

*~*~*~*

By the time the Transport Minister is ready to leave, Bond has taken off his suit jacket and is holding it casually in front of himself. It’s the only way to hide the fact that his cock has leaked all over the front of his trousers. M had talked in his ear for the whole four hours, occasionally pausing to sip and refill her glass of bourbon. 

He now knows more than he ever thought possible about some of M’s sexual experience. He’s actually surprised he hasn’t just come in his trousers, he’s so fucking desperate. The friction alone is making him crazy. 

He manages to get the Minister from the Parliament building to his home without embarrassing himself and then he drives to M’s flat. He knows he can’t touch himself without her permission. She’s still in her work clothes when she answers her door and he has to bite his tongue to keep from groaning when he remembers what she’s wearing underneath the sensible outfit. 

Her brows rise in surprise as if she had no idea he would come straight here. “Why James! I didn’t expect you to come a –calling.” Her tone is totally innocent but he can see the mischief lurking in her gaze.

Flustered, he stumbles over his words. “Uhm. I thought perhaps you would… Err… Like to debrief me.” In his head, he’s begging for a debriefing of a totally different kind.

The innocent façade fades away under the weight of M’s smirk. “That’s very conscientious of you, James. It’s so unlike you and I find it highly commendable but I’m sure that it can wait until morning.” She starts to close her door. 

Bond’s eyes widen. She’s ordered him to not to touch himself, so if she sends him away now, both he and the briefing will have to be postponed until morning. He doesn’t think he can last that long. He stops the closing of the door with an arm. “M, please! I said I’ve learned my lesson. _Please_.

She looks at him appraisingly. “Have you? Have you really, James?” Her voice is stern.

“God, yes.” He breathes, voice shaking.

“Very well, then.” She opens the door wider and steps back so that he can enter. 

Bond follows her into her living room, trying very hard not to watch the sway of her hips or picture the cotton panties he knows lie beneath. The fabric of his briefs and trousers chafe unmercifully. When she motions him into a chair, his hands rise to give himself some relief.

M sits on the sofa opposite Bond’s chair. She crosses her legs. “So, tell me about the mission.”

Bond blinks. Then he gapes at her. “Um.”

“Well, that is why you’re here, is it not?”

“You’re joking.”

“Do I _look_ like I’m joking, 007?” 

Bond swallows hard. She does not. So, with hands clutching the arms of his chair, he proceeds to tell her about his _very_ boring day in as much detail as she requires.

*~*~*~*

It turns out M required quite a lot of detail. By the time he gets to the part where he’s seeing the minister home, a good forty five minutes have passed. He swears to God he’s sweating. He’s had interrogations that were easier than this. Mostly because half way through his report, M had folded her arms across her chest which just served to push her breasts up, giving him an eyeful of deep cleavage. 

He is dying a slow and painful death.

Finally M takes mercy on him. “Very well, James. You’ve been quite thorough. You may have your reward.”

Frantically, Bond fumbles with the front of his trousers. He yanks them open and shoves his under pants down under his balls. His moan, when he is finally able to wrap a hand around his cock, is heartfelt. 

His head falls back against the chair as his thumb rubs circles over the head of his cock. He wants to fuck her but he doesn’t dare ask. Instead he closes his eyes and pictures it on the back of his lids. 

His breathing increases even as his hand speeds up, sliding on the slickness that is dripping from his cock. His hips start to thrust up and he twists his hand every time he reaches the top of his stroke. He’s so bloody close.

“James.”

Bond’s eyes snap open and he immediately focuses on her. His hand and his hips keep up their rhythm. 

“James. I said you could touch yourself. Not that you could come.” 

She’s looking at him so fondly that it takes him a few seconds before her words actually sink in. He gasps and his hips stutter.

“James, _stop_!”

His free hand grabs at his balls, while the hand on his cock stops moving. Both hands squeeze tightly and Bond wails softly. He stares at M, wide eyed and trembling under her regard. 

“Oh, very good, James. That’s a good boy.” 

“Oh, God.” Bond’s hips jerk up. He keeps his death grip on his genitals. “Oh, God. Please. I can’t…”

“Yes, you can, dear. Just breathe through it. You’ll be alright.”

Bond can hear his blood rushing in his ears. He can barely think beyond the ache in his cock and his balls. M is speaking, her voice low and soothing.

“That’s it. Just relax. Just let it go. Now take your hands away so I can see you properly, James.”

Shivering, Bond does as he’s told. He loosens his grip and places his hands back on the arms of his chair. His cock, plump with blood, smacks against his abdomen, peeking shyly from the folds of his rumpled shirt and suit jacket. His balls are swollen and sit tight against the base of his prick.

Leaning forward, M observes him closely. The position makes her blouse gape and Bond’s hips make a tiny movement. M smiles.

“You want to come very badly, don’t you, James?”

“Fuck _yes_! God. Please. Whatever you want; whatever you need…”

M shushes him. “Dear boy. I haven’t even _begun_ to teach you about my needs.”

When he looks at her all eager and pleading, she leans back in her chair. “You may continue.” She grins as his hand rushes back to his cock. “But you mustn’t come until I say so.”

His expression of dismay is wonderful.

*~*~*~*

By the time M feels satisfied that Bond has truly seen the error of his ways, she’s brought him to the edge three times already. When she stops him again, his hands obey her but his hips do not. He’s fucking the air and keening. 

“Please. Oh God. Please.” He pants. “Let me come! I want to come.” He groans. “ _I need to come!_ ” 

M is sure need is the operative word. His cock is flushed a deep red, almost purple at the tip. “Alright, James. You’ve been so patient. You have my permission.”

Bond barely grips his cock when he’s coming with a shout. He hunches through his spasms, come spilling over his hand and splattering his shirt. He wheezes as he comes down. “Oh Christ.” 

Afterwards, he lies there slumped in the chair. M gets to her feet. “Feel free to use the guest bathroom to clean up. I’m going to get changed.” 

She starts toward the main bathroom, pauses and then looks back at him over her shoulder. “And James? Don’t try to play games with me. I will always win.”

**Author's Note:**

> Um. So. I think this is the porniest thing I've ever written. *hides*


End file.
